Read Online Wildfire at Midnight by Mary Stewart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Stewart
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moment, then I shouldered aside the glass door and flew across the hall to the outer porch, peering after him through the window.
The valley was mist-dimmed, and full of vague shadows, but I saw him. He had stepped off the gravel onto the grass and was walking quickly away, head bent, along the verge of the road towards Strathaird. A man, slim, tallish, who walked with a long swinging stride. I saw him pause once, and turn, looking back over his shoulder, but his face was no more than a dim blur. Then he vanished into the shadows.
I turned back from the window in the not-quite-darkness, gazing round the little porch. My eyes had adjusted themselves now. \ could see the table, with its weighing machine and the white enamel trays for fish; the wicker chairs holding rucksacks, boots, fishing nets; pale ovals of climbing rope depending from, pegs; coats and mackintoshes, scarves and caps, fishing rods and walking sticks. . . .
Behind me the door opened without a sound, and a man came quietly in out of the night.
I didn't scream, after all. Perhaps I couldn't. I merely dropped everything with a crash that seemed to shake the hotel, then stood, dumb and paralyzed, with my mouth open.
The porch door swung to with a bang behind him. He jerked out a startled oath, and then, with a click, a torch beam shot out and raked me, blindingly.
He said: "Janet!" And then laughed. "My God, but you startled me! What on earth are you doing down here at this hour?"
I blinked into the light, which went off. "Alastair?"
"The same." He swung his haversack from his shoulder, and began to take off his Burberry. "What was that you dropped? It sounded like an atom bomb."
"Books, mostly," I said. "I couldn't sleep."
"Oh." He laughed again, and pitched his coat over a chair. "You looked like a ghost standing there in that white thing. I was unmanned, but positively. I nearly screamed."
"So did I." I stooped to pick up my things. "I'd better go back to bed."
He had a foot up on one of the chairs. "If you'd stay half a minute more and hold the torch for me, Janet, I could get these blasted bootlaces undone. They're wet."
I took the torch. "Is it raining?"
"In fits and starts."
"You've been fishing, I suppose?"
"Yes. Up the Strath."
"Any luck?"
"Pretty fair. I got two or three good fish, and Hart took a beauty. One and a half pounds.'1
"Hart? Oh—Hartley Corrigan/'
"Mm. Don't wave the light about, my girl."
"Sorry. Is Mr. Corrigan not back yet, then?"
"Lord, yes. He came back a couple of hours since, but I'd just had some good rises, so 1 stayed. Strictly illegal, of course, so don't tell on me, will you?"
"Illegal?"
"It's the Sabbath, my dear. Had you forgotten? I should have stopped at midnight, like Hart." He pulled his second boot off, and straightened up.
"His fish aren't in the tray," I said.
"What?" His eyes followed the torch beam to the table. "Neither are they . . . that's odd."
"Alastair."
He turned his head sharply at the note in my voice. "Well?"
I said, baldly: "Someone came into this porch five minutes ago, messed around for a bit, and then went out again."
"What? Oh—" he laughed. "Don't sound so worried! That would be Jamesy." "Jamesy?"
"Jamesy Farlane; he was out with us. He's a better walker than I am, and he was in a hurry. He lives some way over towards Strathaird."
"I see," I said. I swallowed hard.
"Did you think he was a burglar? You don't need to worry about such urban horrors here, Janet. Nobody locks their doors in the Islands. There aren't such things as thieves."
"No," I said. I put the torch down on the table, and turned to go. "Only murderers."
I heard the sharp intake of his breath.
"Who told you?"
"Roderick Grant."
"I see. Worried?"
"Naturally."
He said: "I shouldn't be. Whatever it is all about, it can't touch you."
"I wasn't worried about myself." "Who, then?" He sounded wary.
I said, with an edge to my voice: "Heather Macrae, of course. The girl—and her people. What had she done
The valley was mist-dimmed, and full of vague shadows, but I saw him. He had stepped off the gravel onto the grass and was walking quickly away, head bent, along the verge of the road towards Strathaird. A man, slim, tallish, who walked with a long swinging stride. I saw him pause once, and turn, looking back over his shoulder, but his face was no more than a dim blur. Then he vanished into the shadows.
I turned back from the window in the not-quite-darkness, gazing round the little porch. My eyes had adjusted themselves now. \ could see the table, with its weighing machine and the white enamel trays for fish; the wicker chairs holding rucksacks, boots, fishing nets; pale ovals of climbing rope depending from, pegs; coats and mackintoshes, scarves and caps, fishing rods and walking sticks. . . .
Behind me the door opened without a sound, and a man came quietly in out of the night.
I didn't scream, after all. Perhaps I couldn't. I merely dropped everything with a crash that seemed to shake the hotel, then stood, dumb and paralyzed, with my mouth open.
The porch door swung to with a bang behind him. He jerked out a startled oath, and then, with a click, a torch beam shot out and raked me, blindingly.
He said: "Janet!" And then laughed. "My God, but you startled me! What on earth are you doing down here at this hour?"
I blinked into the light, which went off. "Alastair?"
"The same." He swung his haversack from his shoulder, and began to take off his Burberry. "What was that you dropped? It sounded like an atom bomb."
"Books, mostly," I said. "I couldn't sleep."
"Oh." He laughed again, and pitched his coat over a chair. "You looked like a ghost standing there in that white thing. I was unmanned, but positively. I nearly screamed."
"So did I." I stooped to pick up my things. "I'd better go back to bed."
He had a foot up on one of the chairs. "If you'd stay half a minute more and hold the torch for me, Janet, I could get these blasted bootlaces undone. They're wet."
I took the torch. "Is it raining?"
"In fits and starts."
"You've been fishing, I suppose?"
"Yes. Up the Strath."
"Any luck?"
"Pretty fair. I got two or three good fish, and Hart took a beauty. One and a half pounds.'1
"Hart? Oh—Hartley Corrigan/'
"Mm. Don't wave the light about, my girl."
"Sorry. Is Mr. Corrigan not back yet, then?"
"Lord, yes. He came back a couple of hours since, but I'd just had some good rises, so 1 stayed. Strictly illegal, of course, so don't tell on me, will you?"
"Illegal?"
"It's the Sabbath, my dear. Had you forgotten? I should have stopped at midnight, like Hart." He pulled his second boot off, and straightened up.
"His fish aren't in the tray," I said.
"What?" His eyes followed the torch beam to the table. "Neither are they . . . that's odd."
"Alastair."
He turned his head sharply at the note in my voice. "Well?"
I said, baldly: "Someone came into this porch five minutes ago, messed around for a bit, and then went out again."
"What? Oh—" he laughed. "Don't sound so worried! That would be Jamesy." "Jamesy?"
"Jamesy Farlane; he was out with us. He's a better walker than I am, and he was in a hurry. He lives some way over towards Strathaird."
"I see," I said. I swallowed hard.
"Did you think he was a burglar? You don't need to worry about such urban horrors here, Janet. Nobody locks their doors in the Islands. There aren't such things as thieves."
"No," I said. I put the torch down on the table, and turned to go. "Only murderers."
I heard the sharp intake of his breath.
"Who told you?"
"Roderick Grant."
"I see. Worried?"
"Naturally."
He said: "I shouldn't be. Whatever it is all about, it can't touch you."
"I wasn't worried about myself." "Who, then?" He sounded wary.
I said, with an edge to my voice: "Heather Macrae, of course. The girl—and her people. What had she done
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